Washington D.C. is the center of the United States government. While state and local branches of the American political system oversee governmental affairs at a basic, local level, the epicenter of political activity is in the nation's capitol. All three branches of the government are centered in a relatively small geographical region. Both houses of Congress, the White House, and the Supreme Court all sit within a ten-mile radius of one another.

Nine years ago, a ship floating in Lincoln Harbor was found with the crew deceased, murdered. Federal investigative agencies were on scene relatively quickly. One such agency was the now-disbanded CTU, or Counter Terrorist Unit. Investigations yielded leads that indicated that the organization Ansar al-Islam was responsible for the attack on the vessel. The terrorist organization, relatively poorly funded and organized, agencies claimed, would be unable to plan and execute such an elaborate an sophisticated attack. The ship's cargo manifest indicated that a substantial shipment of the ingestable toxin Ricin was on board the vessel, but, at the conclusion of the preliminary investigation, the ricin could not be found. CTU and it's collaborating agencies deemed the ricin as the target of the attack. The lead CTU field agent, Agent Jack Bauer, spearheaded the investigation into the missing Ricin shipment. Preliminary intelligence suggested that, should the entire shipment find it's way into the water supply, natural gas supply, or general population, casualties could rank in the hundreds of thousands.

After tireless hours of work, Bauer and his teammates at CTU discovered a connection between the terrorist organization Ansar al-Islam and a prominent figure in then-President Harold F. Barnes administration. Barnes' Secretary of Defense, Bruce Newton, was found to be in possession of several recorded phone conversations with the leader of the American-based cell of Ansar al-Islam, plotting the retrival of the ricin. Staging a meeting between the President and Newton, Bauer was able to meet the two in private, in a seculded portion of the East Wing of the White House. Once locked in the room alone with the President and Newton, Bauer proceeded to knock the President unconscious with a direct blow to the back of the neck. It is believed that Bauer then began to interrogate and extract information from Newton. The secret service, unaware of the President's meeting with Newton and Bauer, were in a panic and soon made their way to the room, but, upon arrival, found Bauer missing. He presumably escaped from a window which seemed to have been smashed open with an ornament from the President's personal desk. He eluded capture and returned to CTU where he was debriefed, but not placed under arrest due to the legal defense of "necessity," which explains that if a person's lawfulness will cause more harm than his inaction, he may break the law.

After an extensive physical examination, Newton was found to be in severe condition. The tip of the middle finger on his right hand appeared to have been sliced off with a very fine razor blade or knife. There were lacerations along the backs of his ankles, calves, and the undersides of his thigh. Contusions around his throat indicated that he had been strangled with a wire from a lamp, a method Bauer would use later on his brother, Graem. Four bones in Newton's arm had been broken, along with two ribs. The nail on his right thumb had been heaved out of the flesh, causing maximum pain and minimal blood loss. Newton had been shot once through the leg, just above the kneecap, an inury which has confined him to walking with both a cane and a knee-brace. He later admitted to taking part in the ricin conspiracy, claiming that he was planning to use the weapon against the terrorists to incite a breach in the cell's command structure, resulting in the collapse of the organization from within.

The conclusion in the day's events resulted in Newton's resignation and he successful recovery of the ricin. Bauer and his team at CTU L.A. and the FBI are largely credited with recovering the information necessary to the locating of the ricin.

"Does that sound like an accurate recolection of the day in question, Mr. Bauer?"

Jack Bauer now sits across from a panel of Congressmen, the subject of a Senatorial hearing regarding interogation methods used by the former agency CTU. His responses to the questions asked of him could prove to save his freedom, or condemn him to life imprisonment.

6:22:316:22:326:22:336:22:34

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have anything to add?"

"They tell you how easy it's going to be. They sit you down in a metal chair and they strap you to countless machines, polygraphs, and vital monitors and sit there and tell you not to worry, not to listen to your gut, to ignore every modicum of humanity you have coursing through your veins. They tell you that once you take your first life, taking another one won't seem so bad. They veil their motives in good intentions. Hopes, dreams, promises of a better America. They deny the fact that the America they claim to so desperately protecting and creating died decades ago. There's nothing left of it. The nation, the government, is nothing more than a distorted echo of what it used to be... what it could be... what it damned well ought to be. Bureaucrats and politicians thrust their fingers in my face. They shake their heads in disgust when they hear about the things that I've done. They want apologies, they want excuses, but what they refuse to admit to themselves is that, while they want to save the constitution and the government, they want results more."

"I get those results. And if you expect me to apologize for it once, you're wrong. I've served my country with honor, sir. I've served it well, and I've served it with pride. The people of this nation don't owe me a single thing, but I'd like to think that I've at least earned your respect. I've been shot, stabbed, tortured, and interrogated. All in the name of the flag that's sitting behind you, all in the name of what this country stands for and, more importantly, what it should stand for."

"Surely, sir, you don't mean to come after us."

"Oh, but I do. As years have passed, the government of this country has grown more and more compromised and, senator, what you seem to fail to realize is that the people of the nation are paying the price. The people who I care about most have been alienated from me, some worse than that, all because I've been loyal to the government agencies and task forces I've been asked to serve. I serve the people of the United States of America, not corrupt politicians who bring chemical weapons into my country under the guise of patriotism."

"You feel no remorse for your actions?"

"Senator, Mr. Newton actively attempted to subvert the President's authority in a matter of both foreign and domestic policy. That behavior is tantamount to a coup d'etat."

"Yes, Mr. Bauer, but who are you to balance Mr. Newton's intentions with the results they caused? What gives you the right to coerse information from him?"

"Senator, I've learned that sometimes intentions aren't good enough. On that day, I was faced with a decision that could have cost thousands of people their lives if I failed to act. With all due respect to Mr. Newton, he had the title of Secretary of Defense, a title which he failed to live up to. He put the lives of thousands of Americans in peril and, with all due respect to his kneecap, and civil liberties, and the law itself, those lives needed to be saved. If you're looking for an apology, Senator, I'm afraid that you've come to the wrong place. Because, frankly, I'm not sorry."

"Very well, Mr. Bauer. You shall see your day in court and a jury will decide your fate. Bailiff, take Mr. Bauer into custody and take him to a holding cell where he can await him arraignment."

Shiro Yoshida, the man better known to the world as the mutant Sunfire was walking down the street. Under his arm he held his newest costume, fresh from Spandex 'R' Us. As he contemplated how good it would be to do super-hero stuff without the crotch of his suit riding up, he noticed the sky going dark.

From nowhere, The Hulk fell from the heavens and landed directly on top of the Japanese Fire-mutant. Hulk rises to his feet and feels a strange tingling in his rectum. With a mighty roar and an effective squeeze the Jade Giant unleashed an angry flame propelled fart, levelling the lower east-side in one blast.

"Heh heh heh. Now THAT was a spicy meatball!" He proclaims.

__________________

Jones: Tell me the truth… what are you going to feel when you put a bullet in one of those men, Nick?

Peter Parker smiles to himself beneath his Spider-Man mask. It's a good day to be him. New duds, new outlook, new attitude. And, finally, he had been getting some good press. The publisher of the Daily Bugle? J. Jonah Jameson had been giving Spider-Man a bit of a boost, since the 'Webbed Wonder' had taken a harder stance on crime. Reports were coming in from police blotters across the city about criminals found in cocoons of deep-black webbing with severely broken bones, choked half to death. Spider-Man himself was openly and notoriously taking credit for them, as a "Not-So-Friendly-Neighborhood" Spider-Man policy.
You know the one. The kind where you say to yourself 'man... this is like making out with a grenade' or 'shoot, I might as well go home and stick my fork in the toaster.' You know that feeling? Me too.

"He was so damned fast. I'll admit, I've done some bad things in my life, I have. I've stolen, I've robbed. And that night, all I was doing was a mugging. Don't get me wrong, I know it's a bad thing to do, and I know I shouldn'ta done it... but Frankie? He killed Frankie."

Those are the words are Mr. Thomas H. Huntman, a man recently attacked by Spider-Man, or, rather, a man in a black costume with a spider insignia upon his chest, who swung into a mugging-in-progress, and broke the legs of one of the men, and allegedly pulverized the other so brutally he bled to death twenty-two minutes later.

Spider-Man snarled behind his mask and hurled the newspaper to the ground. Ben Urich had been working for the Bugle for years, always on Spider-Man's side, supporting him, standing up to J. Jonah Jameson, even, on behalf of the costumed hero.

Now, though, after Spider-Man had donned his black and white costume and actually started taking criminals out, for good, Urich had been the hero's harshest critic.

Enough was enough.

THWIP!

Spider-Man swung hard btween the buildings that lined New York's streets. It wasn't much farther to the Daily Bugle.

Well, I've got that feeling right now in my stomach.

Spider-Man stuck to the glass outside of Urich's office, watching the reporter type away at his laptop, speaking into a tape recorder.
The one screaming at me to stop. To get off the bandwagon, pull the 'emergency brake' cable. But I can't.

"And, after further review, it seemed that the bodega had been robbed by a group of masked assa--"

"Hiya, Benjy-boy."

Well, more accurately... I won't.

Urich spun around and glared at Spider-Man.

"Spider-Man." His voice was calm, collected. As if he had expected to see the vigilante at some point. "Didn't figure you'd make such a... personal... visit."
"C'mon, now." Spider-Man muttered as he crawled through the open window and into the room. "You've been smearing me in the press for a few weeks. Had to figure I'd say something eventually."

"Sure I did."

"How do you see this playing out, then?" Spider-Man asked, perching himself on a wall, leaning forward over his knees.

"I'm not really sure." Urich said, half-confident, half-terrified. His heart was throbbing inside his chest as he took off his glasses and looked at Spider-Man. "You plan on beating the **** out of me?"

Spider-Man felt himself grin. He couldn't help it. Urich was being far too coy for his own good.
Seriously. This was a bad idea. Coming here. Awful, terrible choice.

"Look, Urich... I know you're a good guy. You know what I'm doing out there is right."

"Do I?" Urich snarled, his sarcastic attitude gone now. He leaned forward in the chair, glaring at Spider-Man. "I'm not sure that I think you beating a guy to death is right, Spider-Man."
"I didn't do that on purpose, Urich."

"Oh, so when he was screaming for you to stop, you didn't think that that was a good time to draw the line?"

Spider-Man was silent.

"Doctors said some of the bruises he had were made after he was unconscious. Care to explain that?"
"It's not like he was a bishop, or a teacher, or a big family-man. He was a mugger, a thug, scum."

"So you get to chose who lives and who dies?"
"It's my responsiblity." Spider-Man snarled. "You'd rather leave those decisions to--"

"Judges and juries?" Urich asked. "Yeah."The two stared at each other for a moment before Urich muttered under his breath, "anyone, anyone but you."
"What was that?" Spider-Man snarled, his ego taking a hit.

Spider-Man slowly let himself fall to the floor, looming over Ben Urich.
"Wasted?"

"You wanna preach to me about responsiblity? You beat a guy to death. You took another man's life."
"It was an acc--" Spider-Man began before Urich rose to his feet and snarled at him"You think I care if it was an 'accident?' You think that guy's family cares? You think they give a damn about whether or not you wanted to hurt him? Let me tell you something, kid, 'cause you clearly haven't learned it on your own. Nobody gives a damn about what you wanted. What you did is what people care about, and that's what people remember."

The entire scene reminded Peter of the night his Uncle Ben was murded. That hollow void he'd been so careful to protect and shelter since that night suddenly lurched upwards into his gut as he stood listening to Ben Urich, the black suit covering his expression.

Like anyone who's remember something painful, or being told things he doesn't want to hear, Peter didn't understand or rationalize Urich's remarks, he got angry. And that anger... it was a bomb, simply waiting for something to light the fuse.

"Responsibility?" Urich admonished, shaking his head as if he were looking down upon a spoiled child. "You wouldn't know the first thing about it."Boom.

His hands wrapped themselves easily around Urich's collar, and the man was lighter to hoist into the air than he looked. Urich stared down at Spider-Man, mouth agape, not sure whether or not he ought to call for help, to cry out for someone.
"I know more about responsibility than anyone like you could so much as understand!" The words practically threw themselves out of Spider-Man's mouth as he shook his former friend in the air. He thrust the reporter forward, into a panel of glass and heard a soft crack as the window spider-webbed.
"Something about you, Urich... Something about you has got me really bugged." Spider-Man hissed before noting quietly, "Heh. Spider-Man. Bugged. I made a funny."

Spider-Man put the smallest amount of presure onto Urich's chest and the glass began to give, close to shattering.

Then, with a little more conviction, he added, "He-ro."The vein in Peter Parker's neck was throbbing, but Urich was right. He didn't want to drop him out of a window... Spider-Man wanted to pummel him.

Spider-Man let go of the journalist and watched him slump to the floor. For a moment, he contemplated leaving, letting the situation go. He couldn't, though. Something in his gut was egging him on, driving him forward. The first punch was easy to throw, it didn't do much damage since it hit Urich in the chest. The second hit in him the cheek, the third his shoulder. Spider-Man lost count once he reached double digits.

He stopped for a moment, panting. Urich was barely gurgling, but he was alive.Spider-Man had come to say what he needed to. An edict about printing anymore stories wasn't needed.

Peter swung home quickly, trying to convince himself that he hadn't punched Ben Urich, a man he'd known since he was a lowly intern at the Daily Bugle. A paper-runner, coffee-getter. A superhero hell-bent on making the world a better place with his idealism and faith in human nature.

But the world had changed.

Before he knew it, Peter found himself atop a gargoyle on the Empire State Building, overlooking the whole city. He looked down at his chest and saw the white spider symbol that had grown to be synonymous with his name. Peter realized that it wasn't the worled that had changed... it was him.

Now.

People are murming in the streets. They've got hope again. A familiar symbol has made his way back to the city... back to their lives.

"My god!"

"Come quick!"

"No way!"

"It is him!"

"Spider-Man is back!"

Sirens blare somwhere in the distance and Spider-Man swings into action. He blazes along rooftops, leaps over alleyways, and swings around lampposts, revitalized.

This is more like it! Peter Parker thinks to himself. My name is Spider-Man and I'm back, baby.

The sun sets over the New York skyline and clouds roll in, and a light drizzle starts in the city. An elderly man sits in a lawnchair perched outside of a convenience store on a city block, listening to a radio bulletin. Spider-Man swings hard over his head, almost a blur of red and blue.

"Damn!" He says, a smug and approving smile on his face. "'Bout time he came back."

A car swerves wrecklessly, with several police cars behind it, a few blocks ahead of Spider-Man. He smiles to himself behind his mask as he slams onto the trunk of the convertible.
"Pain in my ass, thy name is carjacker."For a second, he feels the urge to leap forward and rip the driver out of the car by his skull, but he surpresses it and, instead, fires a ball of webbing at the thug's eyes. The driver, preoccupied with trying to regain his vision, heaves his hands away from the wheel. Spider-Man lurches forward, over the passenger compartment of the convertible and lands on the windshield. His fist slams easily through the glass windshield and he wraps his palm around the steering wheel.

"Let's see." He says aloud. "I'm backwards... which means left is..."

He turns the wheel to his left and the car barrels accross three lanes of traffic to the right. Traffic cones fly into the air and horns roar.

"Sorry!"

Spider-Man turns the wheel even farther to the left, and the car's back end nearly spun out of control. Spider-Man hears dozens of people cry out and glances over his shoulder, only to see that the car is careening towards an alleyway.

"Oh, dear." Spider-Man says simply. There wasn't much else he could muster up.

The car slams hard into the buildings that comprise the alleyway, and Spider-Man is hurled backwards into a brick wall, alongside the driver. Spider-Man blinks. He's half out of it, but conscious. The driver wasn't so lucky. He's alive, but clearly down for the count. For a split-second, an urge boils in the Webbed Wonder's stomach to break the guy's neck... to put him out of his misery. Spider-Man blinks several times, letting the feeling pass, and he finds that his hand has been clenched into his fist. Spider-Man webs him to the ground and brushes himself off. He's battered from going a couple rounds with a brick wall and a windshield. He finds a shard of glass lodged in his thigh.

"Aw, damn." He says, disappointed. He pulls it out and holds his hand down over the wound to stop the bleeding.

He examines himself further and finds anoher shard, burrowed deep into his left wrist. He sighs and takes a deep breath and clutches the dagger with his right hand. Slowly, but assuredly, he tugs on it slowly. Once it's disloged from his wrist, he expects to see blood gushing from the wound. Instead, a black substance rests quietly on the tip of the glass.

"No." Peter mutters to himself.

The surge of anger and pain in his stomach rears its head once more and Spider-Man falls to the ground, clutching his wrist as black liquid pours out of it, covering his red-and-blue costume.

"Agh..." He says to the empty alleyway as the darkness encompasses half of his gaze.

Behind his mask, Peter groans and scowls. As the suit wraps itself around him, pouring out of his eyes, mouth, nose, and fingertips, he feels a calm ebbing its way onto his subconscious. It's as if a great, warm force is telling him not to worry, that everything will be okay. It's telling him not to fight, not to be afraid, and not to panic. Slowly, as the blackness clutches every inch of his skin, the lips on Peter Parker's face curve into a smile, despite the writhing, shaking, and shuddering of his body.My name is Peter Parker. And as much as I'd tried to convince myself I was back... that Spider-Man was back. Heh. I guess it just ain't in the cards. He thinks. ...because I'm already gone.

HR: So, Bruce...what is it that you actually do here...I've never been here before.

Dog Lips: Yeah, me neither.

Fire:I thought I was here once, but it turned out to be Florida instead. Who knew?

Bruce: Well, you see...what we do here is quite simple. We create stories based on comic book characters for the comics themselves to use. Each employees fills out their applications for which characters they'd like to write as, and they're approved by their Game Masters. Like, myself for instance. I currently write story-lines for Captain America in Marvel. If, in my story idea, I'd like for Cap to talk to Iron Man, well I need to hash things out with Watchman and we'd work on a story. Each story is then converted in to script form and sent off to their respective companies where their big name writers get the credit.

HR: Wait, so you people are responsible for the mess that Marvel's been in lately?!

Bruce: Heh...funny thing about that....you see, we started Civil War thinking it was going to be awesome, everyone was pumped for it...and then halfway through it we thought "the hell are we doing?" so we pumped out a ending really quick....oh, and the whole Brand New Day storyline was an accident...our Spider-Man writer was sorta ticked off at his wife so, in a fit of rage he wrote that storyline and sent it to Marvel without my approval.

Byrd: Won't happen again! Me and her solved our issues.

Bruce: Glad to see you worked it-

Byrd: Yeah, I "solved" the problem of her *****y attitude by "issuing" a swift kick in tha ass!

Fire: Well, Bruce...strike one.

**********

While Bruce hurries the admins away, Byrd turns to the receptionist, Shlee.

Byrd: Looks like we're gonna need you help.

Shlee: What do you need?

Byrd: When the time comes, you'll know.

*********

Bruce: Here in the DC section, we're pretty proud of our track record. We've been going strong with some of our top writers. Like this young man, GL.